Used to be that those, like me, tracking portraits of evil people (their faces) collected almost always men. Pasty-faced, often with failed beards like sparse armpit hair, defiant eyes (never shame) and other traits of the change-your-seat-on-the-subway class.

Murderers, mass murderers, ISIS luminaries.

But suddenly we’re seeing sexual assaulters and they’re in lecture halls. Bastions of intellect. Barbered, cashmere-coated, respectable men. A professor Emeritus, a distinguished scholar, noted researcher. OK, entertainment, politics, sleaze we expect. But not the men we look up to, role models, pride of their communities caught with a handful of breast or bottom. Not our brilliant scientists with a hand up someone else’s skirt. It’s not seemly. Or a woman-shaming doctoral mentor blocking the employment path for one who minds the professor asking other students to imagine her naked. That’s why we all wear clothes. Is that too complicated for you, professor?

These guys we’ve counted on as our protectors all our lives, and perverts are strewn invisibly among them. How do we know who? How can we know when? What the fuck is this, polite society?

Right now with all sorts of imaginative perversions popping into view (receiving staff naked?) it feels like it’s raining pervs. Umbrellas not enough — so many, such a wide field. And these are the men showing lesser men how it’s done.

Wimmin, what are we to think? Is any man safe or do they all feel sure of public absolution? Roy Moore? You kidding me? The pipsqueak who didn’t know how to stop squeaking. Thought his senate race was designed by God so Roy could ride in and save religion’s maiden honor.

But I digress.

We’ve heard about widespread white-collar crime but it never occurred to me to imagine my fellow citizens as probable crooks. However men, the other half of humanity, seem to feel sexually entitled. Maybe not rape — think of the penalties! the shame! — but left-handed loosey-gooseyness.Have a little male tension? Work it off on a woman.

Hey that’s always behind the arras, give us a break!

No, no more breaks. Either you’re an evolved ape or you’re not. Humans are the ones who ‘transcended’ apes. Choose your identity, and choose it carefully because us wimmin have had enough. No more coverups. No more not-seeing what you see.

Dandified and respectable or in a torn T-shirt — you’re old-fashioned predators.

Like this:

“A congressman grinding against a staff member on the House floor, while sticking his tongue in her ear.” This description is from an OpEd in the New York Times, not from a steamy novel. This is from reality. And the staffer felt, a) wildly aroused, or b) licked and ground against and YUCK. Have you taken a look at the Congressional line-up recently? The paunches, the postures, the absent once-were-buttocks? Really Congressman? What horny fantasy were you working off of? This, sir, is real life.

You think a Harry-and-David-in-the-Sky sends every man a low-hanging-fruit basket in the form of women? His for the plucking until it’s freshly and piquantly replenished next month with seasonal fruits? Each breast and bottom, paper-wrapped for you to fondle. The thrill of playing “How far can I go?” without some eagle-eye attached to a mouth squawking “I see you!” Because you have them trained not to look. Nor see. What goes on in plain view. What they do see.

Who do they think we are?Theirs.

A bonus pack just for them.

Men see the obvious superiority that the Bible guarantees them. Depending on which part they choose to read. Depending on their familiarity, or lack of familiarity, with biology and ethics. And Christian charity.

The question for us is how to break men of this illusion. Women don’t flock to fill your fruit baskets. That’s a compete thing. A “I can pee farther” thing. We pee down, utilizing gravity, and don’t need to waste brain power on aim or force. We just do it and we’re done. No need to fondle the urethra, no feelings wasted on where it ranks. Imagine we start comparing urethras!

The Congressional staff member above felt helpless. Used. One-upped. The recipient of some gender joke. Har-har-har. Tell it in the cafeteria to other Congressmen, use her name and main descriptors. Dark, blond, redhead, short, long, and exaggerated breast size. The men laugh their asses off.

Men. They believe they’re superior.

So what will we have to do till that low-hanging-fruit basket illusion finally blows away —with its smell of burning flesh?

Like this:

Patriarchy will never be stamped out — the male instinct is to dig in his heels and fight for turf. Try to battle the manly Mitch McConnell? No. Be a vine. Be ivy that climbs up walls. And over walls. It bursts through cracks where sun shines, cracks that were not made for them.

Do not look over your shoulder for approval. They can’t grant your mission. Young dogs look back for approval. But not us. Not women.

Patriarchy has ruled for thousands of years. And we’ve padded along beside them. But not now. Now we must grow our own instincts. A red STOP sign should flash in our heads whenever we notice ourselves mistaking patriarchy for truth. Stop. We have another vision for the world. Be like the wisteria vine. Wisteria can find an unattended barn with mighty oaken beams — and can pull it to the ground.

There are meditation practices where one is instructed that, when the mind wanders, to gently bring a mantra back into focus. Don’t yank your mantra back. Don’t fill yourself with negativity, rage. When you notice you’re falling for patriarchal reasoning gently bring your mind back.This isn’t truth, this is a devised reality that you don’t have to believe. You don’t need a prince’s kiss to enter here, you must only recognize you’re a woman.And that women have a power all their own.

I can’t say what this power is, but that it lived in the Women’s March. That we can bond easily with each other. We don’t need football games to roar. We can just roar.

So roar.

And bring your mind back gently to women’s truth.Which is your truth. Don’t fight their way. Join hands and be a vine.

The Faux Holies are out in droves nowadays. Not only Christians — Buddhists killing people?But in America it’s the Christians who are the fauxiest.They defend pedophilia like that was their God-given right. A god who condones child abuse ain’t worth spitting on. One Faux Holy got so worked up he declared his pedophile was truer than Christ.

They will have ways of justifying that for you.

Hence their name, Faux.

Their Fairy Queen is Kim Davis of marriage license fame. She’s kind of like Queen Mab but she wears her hair strictly skinned back. (She suspects it of pubic tendencies.) And she likesthe wimple effect, purity of intent. She rides around on a lighted Sparkler like a broom, because it calls attention to the ever-shining face of her holiness.

And the Sparkler is perpetually lighted — she is a fairy after all.

She’s a scourge on homosexuals. Even took her fight to Romania. Yes, Romania. She loves to get mad like bubbly sugar stuff, How dare they? Bubbly sugar stuff is dangerous — it can leap out and scald you.

Queen Kim likes to scatter candy kisses wherever she goes. They look like chocolate but taste like vinegar and toothpaste.

If God was a hater He’d hate Queen Kim. She gets fired up like a backwoods preacher, damning folks left and right.She has Righteousness!God grants her the right to damn in His name. Just ask her followers.